


Your Laws Do Not Apply To Me

by prouvairablehulk



Series: The Queer Walrus Variations [2]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: M/M, There is no historical accuracy in this at all, the entire Walrus Crew is Gay AF
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-11-08
Packaged: 2019-01-15 12:47:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12321390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prouvairablehulk/pseuds/prouvairablehulk
Summary: The Walrus is crewed by old married gay pirates who just want to get James Flint laid - a story in four parts.





	1. I'm getting weighed down with all this information

“Dear Christ, how long has it been exactly?” 

Flint frowns over the lip of his ale mug and regards Gates with an expression that’s two parts inscrutable and one part concerned. The midmorning sun is streaming through the windows of Eleanor Guthrie’s tavern, and it makes Flint’s hair look redder and his eyes look greener, and the three members of his crew that he’s been drinking with are all looking at him in utter disbelief.

“Why does that matter to you?” he asks, putting the mug down slowly. 

“Because you’re our captain and it sounds like it’s been almost five years since you got laid!” says Gates. 

“That’s just - we’re worried about you.” says De Groot. Joji grunts an affirmative, which is about as eloquent as he ever is verbally - Flint’s never known anyone as effective at communicating solely through body language as Joji is. 

“I’m fine.” says Flint, and scowls into his ale before he takes a long swig. 

“I’m not sure you are.” says Gates. Joji fixes Flint with a particularly focused look that manages to convey ‘you, dear captain, are a lying liar who lies’ more eloquently than any speech by any famous orator, and then takes a swig of his own drink. 

“I’m fine.” Flint says, and his voice is more of a growl. He shoves away from the table and crosses to the bar, ostensibly for more alcohol, but plainly just trying to avoid the conversation. 

“We need to get him fucked.” says Gates. Joji bangs his tankard on the table a few times to emphasize the point. 

“I think he’ll be more at ease with less of a stick up his ass.” says De Groot. “And the men might like him better once he does, considering he refuses to tell them about his Thomas.” 

There’s a moment of silence as all three men consider what they know of Flint’s Thomas, an English Lord now apparently dead, in whose name he fought. It was terribly romantic, it was, and if Flint would only tell the rest of the crew they’d never have to worry about a mutiny ever again, but Flint was determined to keep the story to himself. 

“If we are to do something for him,” says Gates, quietly, eyes suddenly fixed on where Flint stands at the bar, his back still to the three of them, “who would we even think to ask?” 

Joji clears his throat and inclines his head over to another table. Gates and De Groot follow his gaze to a table of three, and De Groot finds himself shaking his head slowly as he eliminates his way down to the man Joji must be referring to. 

“You’ve got to be joking.” says Gates, at length. 

Joji says ‘I’m not kidding, and tell me you’ve got a better plan’ without ever opening his mouth.

***

“You’ve got to be joking.” says Jack Rackham, staring incredulously at his captain where he is sprawled against the railing of the Ranger. 

Charles looks up at him through his lashes with a look that conveys nothing more than his own disappointment in himself. 

“Are you trying to get us all killed?” 

Charles rolls his eyes. 

“I’m not saying I’m going to sleep with him.” says Charles.

“You said that about Eleanor Guthrie, and look where that got us.” says Jack, because it has to be said. 

Charles launches himself off the railing and takes a slow and playful swing at Jack’s head that Jack would have had plenty of time to dodge, thank you very much, even if Anne hadn’t caught it. She raises an eyebrow at the two of them without saying anything, and waits for an explanation. 

“He wants to fuck Captain Flint.” says Jack.

“I was just noting that he’s attractive.” says Charles, defensive. 

Anne looks between the two of them like she can’t believe what she’s hearing, and shakes her head. 

“You said you wanted to fuck him!” says Jack. 

“By which I meant he’s attractive.” says Charles. 

“Sure you did.” says Jack. 

“Yes,” says Charles, “I did.” 

There’s a pause where they do nothing but glare at each other while Anne finally releases Charles’ fist, and then Charles sighs.

“Fuck you, Jack.” says Charles. 

“Well, that's certainly the least dangerous option you've given today.” says Jack. 

Anne clears her throat, and they stop sniping at each other to look at her. 

“He’d probably be down for it.” she says. 

Jack and Charles say ‘what’ in unison, Jack at a frankly alarmingly high pitch and Charles in a way that suggests they should probably start preparing a longboat so he can go back ashore as soon as possible. 

“Why on Earth do you think Flint would be interested?” demands Jack.

“I was talking to Joji,” says Anne, fidgeting with the hilt of the knife on her left hip, “and he said that Flint would probably go for it if you went about it the right way. 

“What’s the right way, then?” asks Charles, over Jack’s sputtering. 

Anne grins, bright and vicious. 

***

Flint’s on the first drink of his second visit to the Tavern for the day - although they are well into the evening, so perhaps calling it ‘day’ is a stretch - when he’s accosted by the same three members of his crew he’d been drinking with earlier. 

“Let’s open this discussion with the fact that it is all Joji’s fault.” says Gates. 

Joji says ‘fuck you’ with his eyebrows. 

“What, exactly, is Joji’s fault?” asks Flint. Given the experiences he’s had with his crew, the answer could be anything from ‘we’ve accidentally only bought oranges as the fruit for the food stores and there’s now four barrels in the hold so we hope you like oranges” to “we’ve just killed ten members of someone else’s crew over a literary disagreement”. 

“Charles Vane might be under the impression you’d be interested in fucking him.” says De Groot, at about the same speed one might pronounce a tongue twister to prove competence to a teacher. 

Flint doesn’t spit his drink across the table, but it’s a close-run thing. 

“And how is it that Charles Vane came to that conclusion?” he says, when he’s sure he won’t be spitting rum. 

“Joji had a long and apparently fruitful conversation with Anne Bonny.”

Flint contemplates how that conversation must have gone, and finds himself smiling a little. 

“And the end result of that is that Charles Vane wants - “ Flint lets the end of the sentence trail into silence, entirely because Charles Vane has just walked into the tavern. 

“Well, fuck.” says Gates. 

“I’m not going to fuck him.” says Flint, very deliberately not looking at Joji and his really rather accurate ‘sure you’re not going to fuck him’ expression. 

“Why? Because of your Thomas?” asks Gates. 

“No.” says Flint. “Well, yes, but -”

“Am I interrupting anything important?” asks Vane, propping his hip against the table, right next to Flint’s drink. His shirt is mostly open, and there’s a shit-eating smile on his face. Flint makes a valiant attempt to look at his face rather than his abs and his pecs and fails miserably. 

“No.” he says, finally. “No, you’re not interrupting.” 

“Can I join you, then?” asks Vane. 

“If you would like to, you are welcome.” says Flint. “Though I can’t imagine what would bring you to speak to me.” 

Joji makes a remarkably inelegant snorting noise, only to be hushed and hurried away by De Groot and Gates. Vane takes one of the newly vacant seats and leans in towards Flint with a bright grin. 

“I think you can imagine plenty well.” Vane tells him. “Do you want me to tell you anyway?” 

He maintains the eye contact he has with Flint as he very deliberately drops his hand to Flint’s knee and starts sliding it upwards. Flint catches his wrist just before he reaches what was clearly his goal. 

“I think you should tell me, in great and explicit detail,” Flint says, voice low, “as soon as we are in a room with a door that we can lock.”

***

Flint returns to the deck of the Walrus the next morning in one of the last longboats to arrive before their departure, coat folded over his arm and wearing a shirt too large and broad in the shoulders to be his. As a result, the neck of the shirt gapes a little, exposing the dark, mouth-shaped bruise on his collarbone that matched the flushed-pink tiny nips on his neck. 

The second he climbs over the rail, Dooley notices. 

“The Captain got laid!” he hisses to Muldoon. 

Muldoon turns, catches sight of Flint, and gasps, dramatically clutching his hands to his chest like a scandalized society matron. 

“The Captain got laid!” says Muldoon, at a considerably louder volume. 

The whole crew stops. 

“No.” says Logan, dragging out the vowel into a long moan. 

“Who?” asks Muldoon, of the crew more than of Flint. “Who on this island would be brave enough to fuck our dearly beloved Captain?” 

Flint glares, but it’s half-hearted. It’s clear he’s still rather firmly ensconced in the afterglow. 

“Who indeed?” says Logan, always happy to play showman with Muldoon. “Not anyone at the fucking brothel - there’s no men, there - so who, indeed?” 

Flint tosses his coat over the top of the wheel and spins on his heel to face the assembly. He raises one hand to shade his eyes, so that he can view all their faces in full detail, and then raises the other with a single finger extended to single out one man. 

“Whatever it was you told Anne Bonny,” says Flint, to Joji, “you have my utmost thanks.”

Joji bows, flamboyant and low, with many a twirl of his wrists. 

“Hold up, hold up, you fucked Anne Bonny?” says Muldoon. 

“No.” says Flint, a small smile teasing around his lips. “Anne just - put in a good word for me, it seems. To her Captain.” 

There’s a beat where no one seems willing to say anything, and then - 

“YOU FUCKED CHARLES VANE?” screeches Muldoon, and James Flint, in the morning sunlight that brightens every color on the deck of his beloved ship, doubles over laughing.


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> or, five times someone told James Flint to fuck the new cook and one time Flint actually followed through

“Please, I am begging you, in the name of all that is holy, fuck the cook.” 

Flint looks up from the charts he’s studying, spread out across the desk in the cabin of the Walrus, with an expression akin to the one a person would wear had they just been smacked in the face with a wet fish. 

“And what the fuck brought that on?” asks Flint, putting down the compass he’d been using to check their course. 

“I will actually throw myself overboard if I have to deal with the way he looks at you for too much longer.” says Gates, leaning against the now-closed door. 

Flint cocks an eyebrow at him. 

“And how, pray tell, does he look at me?” 

“Somewhere between the idea that you hung the moon and that he’d go to his knees the second you asked.”

“Are you sure you haven’t mixed up lust and fear?” says Flint, resting his chin on the palm of his hand. 

“Those are not emotions you mix up, James.” 

“But he is scared shitless of me. He stole my schedule and I threatened to kill him in the wrecks.”

“Yes,” says Gates, in a certain tone of voice that managed to be more patient than a priest at confession, “but you threatened to kill him by pressing him against the rock with your entire body and the threat was fucking hissed into his ear.”

“So?” says Flint. 

“So that man is going to come begging like a puppy for treats until you fuck him and every harsh thing you do to dissuade him is going to make him want it more.”

Flint sighs through his teeth and shakes his head. 

“He doesn’t want me.” he says, and Gates rolls his eyes. 

“Do something about it?” he says. “It will be good for crew morale, too.”

“How the fuck will it be good for morale?” demands Flint, wet-fish expression back on his face. 

“We won’t all suffocate under the weight of the lust.” says Gates, opening the door. “Also, he looks like he’ll be a screamer.” 

Flint’s stunned and flustered sputtering is muffled by the rapidly closed door.

***  
John Silver apparently doesn’t know how to keep his shirts or his mouth shut, and James Flint does not find it attractive at all. Silver’s up in the rigging today, helping patch sails, and every time a breeze wafts across the deck, the white linen of his shirt drifts away from the expanse of golden-brown skin that spans his back and ribs. 

Joji elbows Flint in the side and wiggles his eyebrows. 

“I’m not going to fuck him.” says Flint, refusing to dignify that expression by continuing to look at Joji. 

Joji takes two steps in front of him so James can’t avoid seeing him and shrugs ‘why’. 

“Because he’s a new crew member and he’s a lying snake.” 

Joji rolls his eyes. 

“I know he’s pretty. That doesn’t change my answer.”

Without breaking eye contact, Joji raises his arm to encompass all of Silver’s everything that is visible from this distance, including the unnecessarily tight trousers and the loose fall of his curls, which were just long enough to give you a solid handhold. 

“I’m not going to fuck him, Joji.” 

There’s a half second as Joji starts a new action, but Flint interrupts him before he can finish. 

“No, you can’t have him either.” 

Joji’s eyebrows say ‘sure you’re not going to fuck him’ in exactly the same way that they had right before James locked himself in a room at the brothel with Charles Vane and didn’t leave until early the next morning while valiantly pretending he didn’t want to be limping. 

“With the utmost affection, fuck off, Joji.” says Flint. 

Joji’s shoulders say ‘whatever you say, Captain’ while the wrinkles around his eyes say ‘you’re going to make him scream, aren’t you’, and Flint is very glad he’s walking away, because fucking Silver is beginning to seem like less of an ‘if’ and more of a ‘when’. 

***  
“So, Silver…” says Billy, leaning against the post of Flint’s tent during his break from careening work. 

Flint lets his forehead fall to the desk. 

“Not you too.” he says. “Honestly, Billy.” 

“So you are fucking him?” Billy asks. Off Flint’s expression, he corrects himself. “You’re not fucking him.” 

“No, I’m not fucking the brand new cook who stole the fucking schedule.” says Flint. 

There’s silence for a while. Flint goes back to his paperwork. Billy’s breathing is even despite the hard labour he’s been doing - while shirtless, because if anything could convince the crew to put up with careening it was Billy Bones pulling on ropes attached to heavy things while shirtless - and the volume’s consistency means that he hasn’t moved. 

“But are you going to fuck him?” Billy asks, all in a rush. 

“For fuck’s sake, William.” snaps Flint, slamming the pen down on the desk he’s using. Billy throws his hands into the air. 

“This is the kind of thing I need to know!” he says, and Flint glares at him. 

Well, glares at his abs. Billy’s shirtless and sweating and Flint hasn’t gotten any since Vane, cut him a break. He drags his eyes upwards

“I’m not going to fuck John Silver.” he tells Billy’s pecs.

He tells the bit of his brain that sounds like Thomas and is currently excitedly offering ways someone with that kind of musculature could lift someone like Flint to fuck off, and makes himself look Billy in the eyes. 

“I’m not going to fuck Silver.” he says. 

“You’re not going to fuck Silver.” Billy agrees. “But if you do, could it be within the next three days? You’ll win me five pounds off of Gates that way.”

Billy dodges the rock Flint throws at him while grinning, and heads off for more food. 

Later that day Flint tells Silver that there is no them, and wishes it felt less like he was lying as he said it. 

***  
“Listen,” says Eleanor Guthrie, and Flint cuts her off straight away. 

“No, I’m not fucking Silver.”

“Are you fucking sure?” says Eleanor. “Because here you are giving him to me and telling me to tie him up here and make sure he’s safe and exactly where you want him.” 

“She’s got a point, Captain.” says Billy. He’s rocked his chair back so there’s only two legs on the ground in order to stay a part of the conversation, and Flint has to swallow the urge to kick those legs out from under him.

“He’s got very valuable information in that head of his.” says Flint. “I want to make sure it’s intact when I return.”

“And while I’m tying him to things to make sure he doesn’t run off, are you sure you don’t want me to tie him to a headboard across the way?” Eleanor offers, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “I could gag him too, if that’s your thing. Even tie his ankles to the posts at the foot of the bed, should you so desire.” 

Billy cackles with laughter, and behind him, Silver, just far enough away that Billy’s laughter is the first he’s heard of the conversation, looks very nervous. 

Flint walks out and slams the door behind him. 

The door swings open, and Eleanor’s voice drifts out after him as he leaves. 

“Friends, Captain, he wants to be friends!”

Flint turns around and takes his next few steps backwards.

“So is Max your friend, or…” he asks, letting his voice trail off. 

“Fuck off!” yells Eleanor, and when Gates falls into step with him, he’s grinning. 

***  
“Why ain’t the cook on board?” asks Muldoon, half-leaning on the wheel while they cut through the waves towards the Andromache’s expected position. “You keeping your conquests away from the front line now? I doubt Captain Vane will take that very well.”

“I’M NOT FUCKING THE COOK!” Flint roars, and the entire crew falls silent in response. 

“Sure you ain’t.” says Dooley, a smirk planted on his face.

“Be honest with us,” says Muldoon, “is he as much of a screamer as he looks?” 

“Does Mrs Barlow approve of him?” asks Logan. He, at least, seems more concerned for Flint’s welfare and happiness than the gory details of what John Silver was hypothetically like in bed. 

“I haven’t told Miranda anything about him because I’m not fucking him,” says Flint, which is a lie - he’s told Miranda a lot about John Silver, which started with ‘he’s a lying, thieving piece of shit’ and ended with ‘he’s absolutely a screamer too, and his hair is just the right length to pull on and I bet you he’s made for sucking cock his lips are-’ at which point he’d given up and face-planted into Miranda’s lap and groaned while she laughed and petted his hair - “and I don’t know if he’s a screamer because I’m honestly not fucking him.”

The crew shuffles their feet a bit, and none of them look directly at him. 

“You ought to fuck him.” says Muldoon, finally.

Flint throws his hands up in the air and storms off to his cabin, where he slams the door and resolutely does not think about what John Silver would look like on his knees, on his back, with his eyes half-lidded and his lips parted on a moan, begging for more. 

It doesn’t work. 

***   
“What a day I missed.” James says, and stands. 

Fucking John fucking Silver. How did he keep doing this? How did he keep getting under people’s skin, making himself indispensible to endeavour after endeavour? 

“Come on.” James says, hand on the door handle, not looking back. If he looked back and saw Silver there, coiled on the sofa in Eleanor’s office like a pretty piece of set-dressing or some kind of prize collateral for a job well done, he’s not sure he could be held responsible for his actions. 

Silver leaps to his feet and runs after James like a well-trained puppy, and that’s near to the final straw. He grits his teeth all the way back to the ship, and as soon as his feet are back on the deck, he grabs Silver by the back of his blue jacket and hauls him back to his cabin, resolutely refusing to acknowledge the wolf-whistles and catcalls of his crew. 

Silver gets shoved through the door ahead of James, and James slams it shut as soon as they are both inside. 

“Undress. Now.” he orders, and the fear in Silver’s eyes vanishes instantly. 

“About fucking time.” he says, and shucks his jacket and the shirt that never stays fully buttoned and his boots and those fucking tight trousers and then looks up at James through his lashes and licks his lips. 

James circles him slowly, rounding both Silver and the edge of the desk so that he could sink into his chair and let his knees fall open before they showed how much they were shaking. 

“Come here,” he tells Silver, “and get on your knees.” 

“Yes, Captain.” says Silver, and his eyes are so dark James can barely see the bright blue that has become so familiar. 

James is right. John Silver has hair that is the perfect length to tangle his fingers in, and loves having it pulled if his moans are anything to go by, and he’s definitely born to suck cock, given both his skill and his enthusiasm. 

“Yes, Silver,” James purrs, letting his head fall back and pulling a little more on Silver’s hair so he can feel him moan again. “Just like that.” 

Silver shoves himself further down James’ cock and then looks up at James like he’s waiting for something. James finds himself laughing - not the same kind of laugh that happens on the deck in the sunshine, something darker and smokier and heavier, and Silver shudders at his feet. 

“Do you want me to fuck your mouth?” James asks, and Silver’s ‘yes’ is muffled but audible. James ignores him, keeps talking. “Want me to fuck your throat until you’re hoarse, until everyone will be able to hear you and know exactly what you did?” 

Silver moans, and his eyes roll back in his head a little. He’s loving every minute of this, and James suddenly has plans beyond seeing if Silver was as obedient on his knees as he was in Eleanor’s office. He tightens his grip on Silver’s hair and yanks him back, leaving Silver panting and looking up, eyes wide with confusion. 

“As lovely as that sounds,” James tells him, “I’ve got plans for you, and they don’t involve me coming down your throat.” 

Silver gasps, a little delighted kind of noise, and presses back into James’ hands. 

“What do they involve, then?” he asks, and his eyes are dancing. James turns his hands and cards his fingers through Silver’s curls. 

“You riding my fingers,” James says, “and you riding my cock.” 

John shudders, one hand dropping to his lap, and James wraps his hand around John’s other wrist, pinning it to the inside of James’ knee. 

“Give me your hand, Mister Silver.” James says, turning his free hand palm-up and curling his fingers. 

Silver whines, high in his throat, and slips his hand into James’. 

“Good.” says James, passing both of Silver’s wrists to one hand, holding them folded and against his thigh, watching as Silver shudders and shakes under his hands and his voice. “You’re being so good for me.” 

Silver’s eyes drift closed as he moans this time, and James is actually going to fucking die, right here in this cabin, and his cause of death is going to be John Silver’s reaction to being praised. 

“Come up here, darling.” James says, spreading his knees a little further, and then he winces at his use of the endearment. Silver doesn’t seem to care, scrambling to his feet and then into James’ lap like an overexcited child given free rein in a candy store, burying his face in James’ neck. 

“Please, Captain, please.” says Silver, nosing at the sensitive skin behind James’ ear. “Please.”

“Please what, darling?” says James, and fuck the flinch he feels using the pet name, fuck it. It’s worth it for the slow squirm it forces out of Silver, for the shaking gasp that shudders out of his throat. 

“Please fuck me, Captain.” says Silver, and there’s nothing more to it than a whisper, and it’s still the best thing James has heard since the last time Thomas kissed his first name into his skin. 

“Alright then.” says James, and reaches for the oil in the second drawer of his desk. “Why would I deny you when you ask so nicely?” 

Silver shudders at the first touch of slick fingers, rolls his hips back and down, searching for more. James fists his dry hand in Silver’s hair again and pulls down, biting down on the exposed skin and revelling in the sharp, delighted cry it draws from Silver. 

“Do you like that, darling? Do you like it when I mark you up?” 

“Yes, yes, yes.” pants Silver, fucking himself back on James’ fingers. 

“So do I, darling, so do I - you don’t know what it does, knowing you’ll be marked as mine, knowing everyone will know I had you like this, desperate and begging on my lap.” 

Silver’s eyes fly open, pupils blown wide, and those gorgeous lips part on a gasp.

“Oh, you really like that. You want everyone to know, don’t you?” James presses, punctuating the question with another finger. 

“Oh, oh, oh, yes.” says Silver, and the sibilant end to the word drags on far longer than is necessary. James’ teeth sink back into his throat and this time it pulls a hiccupy sob loose. 

“More, please, please, Captain.” begs Silver, and James knows his grin is feral and he doesn’t care. 

“Look at you.” he purrs. “So desperate for me.”

Silver shakes and he begs, and his nails dig into the skin at James’ shoulders, and James can only take so much. 

“Are you going to be good for me again?” he asks, a low whisper into Silver’s ear. “Are you going to be a good little whore and ride my cock until you’re screaming? Until I fill you up?” 

Silver nods, words plainly caught in his throat, and James has no self control left, not any longer. He’s spent far too long caught up in daydreams of Silver, and the reality is so much better than he’d let himself hope. It’s the work of moments to have Silver sinking down on his cock, and Silver’s broken moan and shaking thighs are things of beauty. James gets one hand on Silver’s hip and the other in his hair and drags him down to kiss him, swallowing the soft keens he makes as he grinds his hips down against James. 

“Please, please.” Silver pants, as soon as James lets him up for air.

“What do you want, darling?” James asks, hips already twitching up to meet each downward grind. 

“Please, fuck me.” 

James forces Silver took look at him with those hazy eyes. 

“I am fucking you.” he says, and Silver shakes his head slightly. 

“Want you to fuck me so they know.” he says, he pleads. “Fuck me so I limp. Fuck me so I can’t sit. Fuck me so I scream.”

And that - well, that James can do. He pushes upwards so he can lay Silver out on the desk and fucks into him, hard and fast and sure and Silver clutches at him with one hand and at the desk with the other and writhes and bucks, and screams every time James nails that spot inside him, and everyone was right and they will all know and James doesn’t care because it’s so good, and then Silver is clenching around him and coming with his loudest scream yet, and that’s all it takes to push James over the edge. 

He slumps forwards, catching himself on the desk before he crushes Silver, and then lifts one hand to stroke across Silver’s hair. 

“Good boy.” he says, and Silver smiles - a true, honest, smile, not his usual cocky smirk. 

Silver is indeed limping the next day, and Flint spends all of his sunlit hours leaning on the railing with a contented smile on his face, one that only broadens whenever Silver looks up at him and flushes.


End file.
